


domestic bliss (and other made-up words)

by luckubus



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Crack, Married Life, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-03-29 11:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19018861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckubus/pseuds/luckubus
Summary: In which Vanya and Five attempt to navigate being in love like normal people (operative word: attempt).





	1. Broody

**Author's Note:**

> Shamelessly inspired by [this prompt post](https://igpitn.tumblr.com/post/185228156257/josephjtoye-you-could-be-sad-about-your-otp-but).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHAHAHAHA ANYWAY (drags my other 58439543 WIPs under a rug and ignores the screaming) i saw the aforementioned prompt list and my brain was like "oh, we would LOVE a new way to procrastinate getting work done" so here we are: "one making awful breakfast for the other and the other eating it because they appreciate it that much". this is whatever the writer equivalent of doodling is. also hi ily have a nice day

Five reacts to the news of Vanya’s pregnancy in ways that are befuddling on the surface.

Friday night, after a long work week for both of them, Vanya gently suggests a date night. She’s been preparing for this all the odd hours that she’s home and he’s not; finals are coming up at the university, meaning _he’s_ dealing with a herd of “brats” that will “come to ruin the world” if they don’t learn the difference between “centrifugal and centripetal” and so on and so forth. He’s grumpy, irritable, short-fused, and handsy all at once. Therapy has taught her to redirect such caustic energy; she has her violin, he has his work. But he can’t — should not! — work all the time.

So Vanya plans on take-out and a movie, politely ignores the look on his face when she declines his offer to pour a glass of wine, and toys with the little photograph in her cardigan pocket that feels like it’s burning a hole through her skin. Her heart hammers consistently in her throat through the entirety of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, and she’s grateful that he’s not commented on her sweaty palms as he holds her hand.

It’s just past eleven, sprawled out on the couch, that the credits roll and Vanya idly rests her free palm on her belly, rounder from all the Chinese. She closes her eyes, and drums her fingertips against the swell.

“Hey, Five?”

“Yup.” He’s stretching, groaning as he does, before settling more deeply against the cushions — date night had been a good idea. He hasn’t looked this relaxed in weeks. He’s yet to let go of her fingers laced into his.

“I have something for you.” Vanya takes care to keep her tone neutral, not let any anticipation seep through the cracks and give her away. Five’s gaze side-eyes her, a brow piqued with interest.

“Yeah?” He says, voice just as even.

With her free hand, Vanya reaches into her pocket, and places the ultrasound onto his lap. Still sleepy from the luxuriating, he’s in no rush when he picks up the photo and holds the glossy still between his fingertips.

The moment of truth drips on like syrup. The credits are still going, the overhead fan creaking with each revolution, and from the faint light of the television Vanya watches the fog rapidly evaporate from her significant other’s expression. Patient, maudlin intrigue is replaced with quiet confusion, then loud confusion, and then perfect silence. His pupils seem to move a mile a minute as he looks at the scanned image with fresh coherency, analyzing and memorizing every static detail with a dry mouth and failing vocabulary.

Finally, he flips it over, skims the back for any other information, and meets Vanya’s eyes.

“Is—” he begins, but his sentence immediately falls off of a cliff. He pauses, gathers his bearings, and swallows down the spit in his mouth, before trying again. And failing. “This?”

Vanya offers a weak, hopeful smile, and gives his hand a very small squeeze. She hopes it’s not obvious that she is holding her breath and can’t breathe and will not breathe until she can ascertain what his reaction to this news is—

“I love you,” Five says suddenly, ardently, and he’s pale but she can _feel_ the blood rushing through him, practically vibrating his very being. “How far... along...?”

“Ten weeks-ish,” she shrugs. “We’re due mid-December.”

“Wow.” The look on his face is priceless. If she wasn’t so worried that he was about to have a stroke, she’d find it much more comical. He looks like he’s just solved the last digit of pi, and also like someone has dumped an entire bathtub of ice on him. Abruptly, he gets up from the couch — though still holding her hand, which he kisses reverently about a dozen times — and then promptly stumbles away with the ultrasound.

Vanya peeks down at her belly. Huh.

“Well,” she says to her unborn little thing, not quite a person yet, but still hers. “That could have gone a lot worse.”

—

The house smells like charcoal when she wakes up.

The bed is, surprisingly, empty. It’s just past nine and Five not sleeping in on the weekends is essentially unheard of and cause for concern, so Vanya throws the weighted covers off and blearily wobbles towards wherever he may be in a Metallica t-shirt and floral print cotton underwear.

“Five?” she calls out, raspy from sleeping. “You around?”

“Downstairs,” he yells back in the distance.

Vanya rolls her eyes. “You okay down there?”

“Peachy. Hurry up and come down.”

Well then.

Vanya detours only to use the bathroom first before slowly descending the stairs, wincing at all the bright daylight pouring into the space.

The curtains have been yanked back, and every inch of the entryway and living room has been cleaned within an inch of its life. The whole place smells like Fabuloso and burnt carbon, and she can only stare on in wordless awe at the scene before her eyes.

“Perfect timing,” Five says from the kitchen, and lo and behold, there he is with a plate of frail pancakes and charred bacon and eggs that the yolk has marbled in gracelessly. Orange juice is already planted where she’ll be sitting with a napkin and silverware and little flowers from the wild, unkempt garden they let grow loose in the back.

Vanya’s entire chest constricts. Oh god. It’s too much. It’s so much. It’s so romantic, and sure Five can do romantic but this is a whole nother level, this is... It's... Vanya gulps down the overwhelmed, emotional tears that threaten to spring to her eyes.

Thankfully they are abated by the cherry on top, noticed belatedly: a new picture hanging on the wall.

A massive, blown-up, professionally-framed portrait of her ultrasound.

“Oh my _god._ ” Her voice doesn’t even sound like her own. When did he get the— the _time_ to— the _insanity_ —?

“Sit. Eat.” Dumbfounded, she’s shuffled into a well-worn chair and subconsciously picks up a fork. The fork sticks itself into the egg. The egg enters her mouth, crispy and oversalted, and she swallows that down to try the bacon instead.

It’s horrible. He burnt it and didn’t dab up the grease. Tears brim again out of what may be nausea, and Vanya chews and chews and chews.

“What do you think?”

The pancake, too, is not cooked well — it’s lumpy, which is not visible from the outside. Vanya puts her fork down, turns to Five, and grabs him by the collar to yank him down to her.

She kisses him full on the mouth. She hasn’t brushed her teeth and he tastes like black coffee and she ignores the instant, delicious pang that sinks into her belly at the feeling of his mouth against hers, and breaks it off before she gets ahead of herself.

“I love you,” she says, and she means it, and to his credit, he looks a fragment more smitten than he did a moment ago.

“Thanks,” he smiles, mouth crooking up lopsided. “Love you more.”

He grabs the fork, stabs into the eggs and bacon and pancakes all at once, shoves it in his mouth, and promptly gags.

Vanya laughs so hard there are finally tears. There are no more kisses until after lunch and her apology turkey sandwiches, made with love.

(And a much better practiced hand.)


	2. vena amoris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm making myself write because i want to write SO BAD and this is good exercise. hi i love u all and hope you're having a sexy day. this is just a bunch of tooth-rotting bullshit fluff.
> 
> prompt: "the two of them going down to the beach and one getting sunburned really badly so the other slathers them with aloe gel when they get home"

“Why exactly did we decide on this again?”

“Because,” Five says, popping open the fresh bottle of aloe, “we were raised by a sociopathic billionaire and decided that the best revenge was a life well-lived. And we’ve always wanted to see what the beach was like.”

It’s certainly not the answer Vanya’s looking for. Five is too blunt, she doesn’t want to be reminded that this is kind of her fault — but he doesn’t exactly bark it out. His words were measured, almost gentle. Strangely — as usual — it kind of makes her feel better.

The aloe drips onto her back and she hisses in guttural relief at how _cold_ it is. But it feels _good_. Vanya sighs and turns her head to look out the impossibly huge bay window as her— _husband_ , her brain corrects helpfully, her _husband_ methodically massages the aloe into her roasted red back and shoulders.

Oh, it feels sublime.

The new ring is heavy on Vanya’s finger.

Comfortably exhausted, she lets her sight unfocus on the band, the blurry colours of the ocean behind it. The sun is well on its way to setting, shrouded by strewn masses of dark lavender and glowing orange clouds that melt into the horizon. Under them, the glittering, shifting tides reflect the stars that are beginning to dust the sky more brightly.

And there is her hand. There is her ring finger. There is a golden band shaped like a violin neck wrapped perfectly around her digit with fine, filigreed strings and tiny stones set into the scroll. Above it is her newest addition — matching gold, styled as two f-holes that fit perfectly into the first.

Five’s hands steadily work her back, laden with the decadent relief of the aloe, and Vanya feels a lump in her throat. Certainly, it’s not from the pain and sting of the sunburn.

She quickly wipes away at her eyes. No, she will never get used to tender displays of affection. Ever.

“You good?” His voice breaks her reverie gently. Vanya blinks a few times to ensure there are no traitor tears; breathes in, breathes out. Just like she was taught. It’s much better than medication.

Fingers dig into her muscles, right where they’re tense in her neck, and she sighs into it.

“Great,” she says. With her thumb, she spins the rings in tandem, admiring how the little gems illuminate in the dying light so beautifully. “Peachy. Fantastic.”

The hands pause. A surge of affrontment follows.

“Sarcasm? On _my_ honeymoon?” Five drawls, his palms moving down dangerously close to her ass. Her one piece is low-cut in the back, and for a moment Vanya’s inhale hitches, skin sensitive from his touch and the cool, delicious gel—

“N-no, never,” Vanya retorts, brow furrowed. “I was being sincere!”

“Good to hear.” The hands, oh the glorious hands, they resume splaying the natural medicine across all her aching pores, and she doesn’t realize Five isn’t finished talking yet.

“So you’re having a good honeymoon?” He asks, quietly. Like he isn’t sure of the answer to that. Like he’s hoping, more than anything in the world, that the answer is yes.

The emotions catch up to Vanya before her rational thoughts can. Misty-eyed once more, she closes them and admires the dark shades of the sunset behind her lids where she safely traps the tears, too.

He cares. He cares so much. She will never get used to that, either.

Vanya reaches back with one arm, and manages to find his wrist. Five’s confused, to be sure, but he lets her fumble until she’s gripping onto his hand tight, squeezing all her love into him with one touch.

“Yeah,” she croaks, smiling and ignoring the warm, damp drip on her cheeks. Not a single pane of glass cracks or breaks. “I think I am.”

She feels his thumb press into her rings, light. He doesn’t spin them.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice thick with something unsaid. That’s okay — he’ll just keep pressing softly, insistently. “I think I am too.”  


Sometimes, it’s easier to say ‘I love you’ without the words.


End file.
